


Saved (From the Grave)

by Malfi1230



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale to the Rescue (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malfi1230/pseuds/Malfi1230
Summary: Crowley never asked anything of Aziraphale beyond his companionship. Then, one night, he found out how far Aziraphale would go for him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 220





	Saved (From the Grave)

Over the years, Crowley would occasionally feel himself overcome by an impression of isolation and abandonment. Generally, these feelings would come after he’d just had a large meeting with his fellow demons regarding some sort of plan—often one he’d hatched himself. Despite the recent company, and despite the acclaim his assertions often brought, Crowley would, after these gatherings, find himself feeling deeply alone. Not merely “alone” in his flat. He didn’t mind solitude. Alone in life. Alone in his existence on Earth.

When it got too soul-crushing to abide, he’d find Aziraphale. He’d find some excuse to come to Aziraphale’s bookshop with a bottle of wine and would spend hours drinking and discussing and recounting, and suddenly he’d feel warm and together and not alone at all. And if he ever spared a moment to wonder why he felt safer and more at home with an angel than with the entire demonic army, he didn’t allow himself to ruminate. He fit with Aziraphale. He didn’t need to know why. 

And he asked for nothing in return. 

__________

Crowley knew the moment his corporation hit the ground that he was done. His head swam, his face throbbed, and his body ached. He felt Sandalphon looming over him and knew he couldn’t stand back up for another hit. 

The swimming in his head increased to nausea. Crowley barely managed to turn his head to one side before he vomited. _Concussion,_ he thought disjointedly. _That’s what humans call this._

Gabriel clicked his tongue disapprovingly, as if Crowley had vomited intentionally just to irritate him. “Really?” he exclaimed. “Can’t we skip the theatrics?”

“Sorry, wouldn’t want to put you off,” Crowley quipped back, but the sarcasm lacked any bite. At this point, Crowley himself lacked any bite.

Gabriel huffed and looked to Sandalphon, still pointing down at Crowley. “Bring him,” he ordered, and Sandalphon grabbed Crowley by his collar and dragged him behind as he and Gabriel walked unhurriedly to an unknown destination.

_What did I do?_ Crowley wondered idly as he sprawled in Sandalphon’s wake. _Why are they after me specifically?_ Generally speaking, angels and demons respected an unofficial détente—angels performed their miracles and demons did their tempting, and while they may try to trip each other up, neither side interfered with the other directly. When the End of Days came, there would be an all-out war between Heaven and Hell, and angels and demons could attack each other to their hearts’ content. Until then, however, all assaults had to be indirect. No outright confrontations.

It didn’t get more outright than a crack on the head from the pommel of an archangel's angelic sword while minding one’s own business walking along in the West End one quiet evening, followed by a vicious beating from Heaven's resident enforcer. Crowley tried to think of what he could have done to provoke this reaction. None of his recent demonic actions seemed particularly nefarious. He’d given the oysters at one particular bistro stronger than normal aphrodisiac properties last Tuesday (lust)… a week or so ago he’d tempted every teenager in Brighton into stealing his or her parents’ car keys and sneaking out of their houses on one night, and made sure none of them got caught until they returned home (dishonoring thy mothers and fathers)… and he’d helped one particularly mild-mannered office clerk work up the nerve to tell off her overbearing boss in rather rude fashion (pride? wrath? He wasn’t entirely certain on that one, it had just been satisfying to watch it happen). None of this seemed terrible. The oysters were delicious. He’d made sure all the teenagers got home safely. The clerk had actually been promoted, ironically. All’s well that ends well, right?

Crowley felt the nature of the ground beneath him change. His back began to burn, and suddenly he knew where he was. Nothing was well.

Crowley writhed in Sandalphon’s grip as the consecrated ground began to burn through his clothes. They had just entered the most sacred cemetery in London, where several particularly holy historical figures were interred. A chapel sat on a hill nearby, but the entire area was far more blessed than that nondescript little church he had pranced into to bail Aziraphale out with the Nazis.

Consecrated ground wasn’t holy water. Holy water killed in seconds. Extended exposure to consecrated ground would burn his skin away layer by layer. If, of course, he didn’t manage to get himself to secular ground, and quickly.

Crowley thought of what demons might be in the area to provide a helping hand, but London was his territory, and even if there were any about, demons weren’t known for going out of their way to help others (even a fellow demon). Briefly, Crowley wondered if he could communicate his situation to Aziraphale somehow. Crowley had come to Aziraphale’s rescue numerous times (he actually enjoyed it), and Aziraphale had on occasion returned the favor. And Satan, it would be really good to see him right now. Aziraphale had soft, warm hands and a kind presence; Crowley always ached for him when he was scared or hurt. But never had either of them had to openly defy their respective upper managements on the other’s behalf. Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale could do anything to dissuade Gabriel, or that he would even try to contradict an archangel, his boss, for Crowley. The dubiousness of that prospect left Crowley sick at heart, but the thought of Aziraphale paradoxically strengthened his resolve. _Can’t die,_ he thought determinedly. _Need to stay on Earth with my friend. Or whatever he is to me._

He struggled harder against Sandalphon’s grasp and managed to get his legs beneath him, ripping himself away from Sandalphon in the process. Backing away, still clumsy with his head swimming and his body bruised, he began to summon himself to magically relocate. Fleeing wasn’t precisely a brave or bold move, but he knew he was more of a trickster than a fighter, and bravery and boldness were angelic traits in any case.

Before he managed his demonic escape, Gabriel stepped forward with his angelic sword and struck Crowley across the face with the flat of the blade with brutal force. Crowley went down hard, stunned and motionless with pain. Dimly he felt his wrists and ankles being bound with rope— _blessed rope? Who blesses rope?_ —and once again he was moving, dragged towards some destination he couldn’t make out with his eyes rapidly swelling shut.

“Here,” Gabriel announced. Sandalphon dropped his grip on Crowley’s collar, and Crowley fell flat on the ground, the entirety of his back burning. He wriggled helplessly, working the rope as his wrists burned in the blessed bindings, trying to reduce his contact with the consecrated earth and feeling more a snake than ever. 

The cruel toe of Gabriel’s boot shoved him, hard, and he was rolled to his left. Suddenly he fell into a hole he didn’t even know was there. He landed flat on his back, all the air knocked out of his lungs in a huff. _A grave,_ he realized with a sickening swoop of dread. _I am lying in an unfinished grave._

_Or perhaps this is my grave._

“I thought about how best to do this,” Gabriel called conversationally from above. “Holy water is most effective, but it is so quick. One could almost call it mercifully quick. And for an archangel, I’m feeling remarkably unmerciful.”

“Please…” Crowley moaned. “Tell me why. Tell me what I did.”

“So then I thought, what about holy ground?” Gabriel continued, unperturbed. “If I bury you down there, I can rest assured that you—and I mean all of you, not merely your corporation—died slowly, screaming, with your skin boiling. And there’s something poetic about it. Burying a demon in a holy grave… there’s something to that, don’t you think Sandalphon?”

“Absolutely.” Sandalphon responded. Crowley wanted to yell that there was absolutely nothing to that, it was complete rubbish, but froze when he heard the soft chunk of a shovel in dirt. The first sprinklings of consecrated soil rained down on him, burning his face. He sobbed.

Then, the shadowy figures above froze. Both turned to look at something off in the distance. For a moment, there was no sound, then… 

“Is that what I think it is?” Sandalphon asked.

“The cathedral. It’s on fire.” 

“Gabriel, the Ryland manuscript is inside, on display…”

“I KNOW! Hurry, now. The demon’s not going anywhere.”

The two angels took off at a sprint. Crowley breathed hard in the quiet, his breaths hitching in pain. The prolonged exposure to consecrated ground had weakened him to the point that he could no longer struggle, despite the ever-worsening sensation of his skin burning off his bones, and the blessed bindings blocked any magic he could have summoned himself to perform. He let out a scream at his own passivity in the face of his extinction, but the scream came out as a whimper. 

_I’m going to die. I’m going to die. Oh God…_

Then he heard soft footsteps above him. They were back. _Fine. Get on with it._

“Crowley!” 

Crowley’s eyes popped open as much as they could against their swelling. “Aziraphale?” He tried to call back, but he managed only a whisper. 

Aziraphale hovered above, his blond curls gleaming in the moonlight. He took one small step forward over the edge of the hole and landed softly beside Crowley’s bound body. In the darkness of the hole, Aziraphale’s hands were quick and sure as they worked the knots loose and freed Crowley’s hands and feet. “My dear, how badly are you hurt? Can you stand? We don’t have much time.”

_It was him,_ Crowley realized dully. _The church, the fire, whatever the Ryland manuscript is… Aziraphale arranged it._ At that thought, Crowley managed to sit up. He tried to scramble to his feet and felt his body almost immediately sag back down. He groaned at the renewed contact with the soil. 

“Alright my dear, that’s alright. You don’t need to do a thing. Just lie still.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley against him where he crouched. “Lean against me.” One soft hand positioned Crowley’s head so it was nestled in the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Then, Crowley felt himself scooped up off the ground, one angelic arm strong around Crowley’s back, the other holding him at the knees. Aziraphale stood, Crowley’s body cradled against him, and Crowley could have wept from the relief of being off the toxic ground. Aziraphale held him with exceptional gentleness, but why had Crowley never realized how strong Aziraphale’s arms were? Somehow, Crowley had forgotten that Aziraphale had once wielded a sword in his own right.

Aziraphale unfurled his broad white wings in the floor of the grave and gave one mighty downward stroke, crouching and springing up as he did so. He leapt out of the hole with the demon in his arms and landed gingerly, then took off at a brisk jog, putting his wings away as he did so. Crowley whined as the jostling motion irritated the burns on his back, and Aziraphale crooned reassurance, his voice a bit breathless with exertion. 

“I know, my dear boy, I’m so sorry. Not long now, not long at all.” 

The hostility of the consecrated ground vanished as they left the cemetery. Aziraphale jogged on, his footfalls going from soil to pavement, then stopped abruptly in a dark alley next to a car. “Excuse me, my dear,” he said apologetically, and released Crowley’s legs so that they fell to the ground. He kept his other arm firmly around Crowley, however, so that Crowley’s legs didn’t actually need to support any of his own weight. With his now free hand, Aziraphale opened the rear car door and helped Crowley crawl inside to lie on his stomach. 

It was the Bentley. Crowley let out a soft cry of joy. The door closed behind him as he breathed in deeply, relishing the reassuring smells of leather and old-world mechanical luxury. A moment later, the front driver’s side door opened and Aziraphale slid behind the wheel. The engine started. 

“You can drive?” Crowley murmured, his words sounding smothered with one side of his mouth pressed against the seat. Aziraphale understood him regardless and chuckled. 

“Of course my dear. Driving is one of many things I know how to do but prefer to avoid.” He pulled smoothly out of the alley without another word.

Crowley didn’t know where they might be going. Where would he be safe from an archangel’s wrath? He couldn’t summon the energy to care. He drifted in pain and exhaustion as Aziraphale drove into quieter London neighborhoods.

__________

“Come now, Crowley. We’re here.”

_We are where?_ Crowley could no longer see at all. His eyes had swollen completely shut. He twitched feebly and moaned. 

“It’s alright dear, I can help you. Take my hand.”

Crowley reached out blindly and gripped Aziraphale’s hand as if he were a ship at sea and that hand was the last port in a storm. Aziraphale drew him slowly out of the car and lifted him again into his arms when it became clear Crowley was still unable to walk. 

“I wish I could heal you, Crowley, but your injuries are all the result of holy items. The consecrated ground, Gabriel’s sword—I can’t hasten the healing of the injuries they caused. But you will heal on your own. You just need peace and rest.”

“Angel… how…” Crowley couldn’t finish the thought. _Peace? What peace? Where can I find peace in a world where the archangel Gabriel wants me dead?_

They stopped, and once again, Aziraphale released Crowley’s legs to free one hand. He knocked three times on something that was clearly wooden. _Whose door are we knocking on?_ Crowley wondered as Aziraphale bent to cradle him fully off the ground again. 

Crowley heard the door open, and then a soft exclamation of shock.

“My dear Regina,” Aziraphale said politely. “Please forgive the intrusion, but I must beg your indulgence. And your aid. My friend here needs sanctuary. And there is no one else I can trust with his life.”

There was a pause following this speech. Finally… “He is welcome here.” The voice was soft and melodic. “Please bring him in, Mr. Fell.” 

Aziraphale stepped into the house, and as Crowley felt himself enter unfamiliar territory, he pressed his cheek against Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

“Oh dear,” said the musical voice, a little deeper than Crowley would expect of a woman. “Take him to the upstairs guestroom. I’ll find my first aid kit.”

Crowley felt his body sway back and forth in Aziraphale’s arms as Aziraphale took the stairs, slowly and steadily. Crowley tried to open his swollen eyes to take in his surroundings, but his lids refused to lift beyond the narrowest of slits. The two entities passed through another doorway, and Aziraphale laid him down on a soft surface. _A bed,_ Crowley realized. Despite the softness of the surface, Crowley cringed at the contact to the extensive burns on his back. He felt blisters burst and let out an involuntary mew.

Aziraphale stroked his arm where it lay limply on the bedspread. “My friend will come to treat you, my dear. I’d like to stay and do it myself, but Gabriel and Sandalphon will be finishing up with the fire soon and will then discover you are gone. The first thing they will want to do is interview all the angels who were earthbound at the time.”

Crowley, who had been fidgeting weakly in an effort to find a more comfortable position, froze at these words. He pictured Gabriel interrogating his angel about his whereabouts at the time of Crowley’s apparent disappearance. He pictured his angel standing alone against this questioning. He pictured what Gabriel might do to his angel should he sense any deceit. Crowley instantly panicked.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley attempted to pull himself upright but lacked the strength, his body exhausted by pain and stress. Instead of rising from the bed, he managed only to prop himself up on his elbows. 

“Crowley, whatever are you doing? Lie back!” Aziraphale placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, pressing kindly but firmly back towards the mattress.

_Don’t let Gabriel catch you alone! He will hurt you, and I can’t protect you!_ Crowley screamed it in his own mind, but aloud he managed to say only, “Gabriel… hurt…”

Aziraphale heard these words and came to the wrong conclusion. “My dear, you are safe here.”

“THEN STAY WITH ME!” Crowley roared. “Stay here, stay safe!”

Crowley felt a change in the air, and Aziraphale’s next words came out soft and sweet. “My dear boy.”

Crowley struggled to work his legs over the edge of the bed. If Aziraphale was determined to have this confrontation with Gabriel, he would be there for it.

Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder disappeared, only to press to Crowley’s forehead. The hand, no matter its softness, effectively arrested Crowley’s progress towards the edge of the bed. “You will sleep now,” Aziraphale declared. His voice, despite its gentleness, was full of command. 

Immediately, a wave of peaceful exhaustion swept through Crowley. The sensation was novel. He slumped back on the mattress with a bolt of betrayal. He had never been subject to an angelic command before. Though they had never overtly discussed the possibility, both he and Aziraphale obeyed an implicit rule to never manipulate the other through angelic or demonic means. This meant Crowley had never tried to tempt Aziraphale, and Aziraphale had never subverted Crowley’s will with a miracle. Now, however, his limbs felt pleasantly but imperturbably heavy, and he couldn’t bring himself to so much as twitch, let alone stand, under the weight of the angelic imperative to sleep. 

“Basssssssstard,” he hissed. He had meant to spit the word accusingly, but his exhaustion led him to slur it, and it came out on a croon, like a term of endearment.

“You will sleep,” Aziraphale repeated determinedly, “And your sleep will be long, and peaceful, and restorative.”

“‘Ziraphale…” Crowley’s ever slackening fingers locked around Aziraphale’s wrist.

“And you will have pleasant dreams, filled only with what you love most.” Aziraphale completed the blessing, removing Crowley’s hand from his wrist and placing it under the blankets, over Crowley’s heart.

“-ngel…” Crowley could say no more. His body was helplessly heavy. His mind was slow and clouded with deep exhaustion. The last thing he felt certain of was the sensation of his body being turned onto its side to spare his back further pressure. After that, he thought he might have felt soft fingers in his hair, or maybe the press of lips to his forehead, but that might have been part of his dreams.

It was a year before he spoke to Aziraphale again. 

__________

Crowley came back to consciousness by degrees. His first sensation was of pain, but also the cessation of pain. Every part him ached, but that ache was so much more bearable than the agony he had felt at the bottom of the grave. He moved hesitantly, realizing with relief that he was able to do so, and realizing with even greater relief that he could open his eyes.

The light streaming through the window revealed a small, tasteful bedroom. A watercolor painting of the Thames under a starlit night hung on one wall. Crowley was ensconced in a four-poster bed, beneath a thick, white duvet. On the bedside table sat a tall glass of water, and Crowley edged gingerly towards it, lifting himself off the bed enough to drink without spilling. 

On a chair by the window lay a set of men’s clothes—dark sweatpants, a black t-shirt, a set of black pants, and black trainers. They looked comfortable and soft, and all looked as if they would fit Crowley reasonably well. The accuracy of the size, not to mention the color choice, spoke of Aziraphale’s involvement. 

Aziraphale. Crowley sat bolt upright and winced at the immediate return of pain. He breathed deeply until the worst of it passed, then stood and staggered to the clothes, dressing with maddening deliberateness. Crowley was an impatient creature at the best of times, and he was going a little mad with the uncertainty of his angel’s fate. 

Caution returned as he cracked the bedroom door and peaked out into the hallway. He thought he could hear movement from below, and he followed the sounds in a straight path to an upstairs landing and down the stairs he remembered being carried up before. The open area at the foot of the stairs was flooded with light from the front windows, and Crowley blinked owlishly as his eyes adjusted.

“Hello. How are you feeling this morning? Are you alright?” 

Crowley turned towards the voice, a bit startled but not alarmed. The voice was too musical to cause distress. The owner of that voice sat at a small dining room table, an open book before her and a teacup to one side. She was a woman in her mid-sixties, with bright white hair pulled neatly back at the nape of her neck and tasteful makeup that enhanced the elegance of her features rather than attempted to mask her age. Her eyes were a very light brown, and they observed him without fear.

Crowley belatedly tried to cover his own eyes as he realized he was wearing no glasses. His tawny irises and slitted, serpentine pupils were clearly visible in the bright space. He almost snapped his fingers to summon a pair of glasses out of the air, but knew before he tried that nothing would happen. His powers felt far away; his ordeal had left him without magic, at least for the moment. But the woman hadn’t so much as blinked when she had first seen him, so there seemed to be no point in hiding his eyes in any case. 

“Won’t you join me? You shouldn’t spend too much time on your feet. You’ve had quite an ordeal.”

Crowley felt nonplussed. He wasn’t accustomed to kindness from anyone other than Aziraphale—it wasn’t a demon’s lot. He had to fight his automatic suspicion. The woman’s solicitude was so clearly genuine, however, that Crowley found himself stumbling across the kitchen towards her and sitting down at the chair across from hers without another word.

Crowley tried not to slump in his seat; he was unnerved by how exhausted he was by the brief time on his feet. “What day is it?” he asked finally. “How long have I been here?”

“It is Sunday, and you came here late last Tuesday night. You’ve been asleep for almost five full days. You very much needed rest.” The woman regarded him evenly, silent for a moment. She seemed unsurprised by the amount of time Crowley had lain in bed, despite the fact that a human could not have done so without certain biological needs making themselves known. She then asked, “Would you like some tea or something to eat?” 

Crowley stared at her. This woman had just told him that he had slept for almost five whole days, but instead of exclaiming, “Good God, you must be literally famished, you need to eat immediately,” she proposed nourishment in a way that suggested she would have found either a yes or no to her offer to be equally plausible. And indeed, Crowley did feel much too unsteady to eat. Since the woman didn’t seem to expect him to need to do so, he said, “Nothing to eat, but I think I would like some tea.” 

The woman smiled and moved to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove before placing a second teacup in a saucer. Neither spoke as the woman brought a small pitcher of cream, a bowl of sugar, and finally a steaming cup of perfectly steeped tea to the table. Crowley sipped, realizing that the only other person who had ever served him a perfect cup of tea was Aziraphale. He peered again at his mysterious hostess. 

“Where is… the man who brought me here?” Crowley demanded, trying not to sound too urgent.

“I don’t know,” the woman answered. “I haven’t seen him since he left the night he brought you. He told me he would be in touch when it was safe for you to leave. I haven’t heard anything more from him.” 

Crowley swallowed his fear to focus on the implications of this. Be in touch. As if Aziraphale and this woman were in a habit of communicating. The idea of waiting for Aziraphale's guarantee of safety was galling; the angel might need help now, and how would Crowley know?

Something of Crowley's thoughts must have shown on his face. The woman raised one eyebrow, and added, "Mr. Fell did, however, instruct me to ask you not to do anything rash upon waking. You need time to heal, and if you dart off now, it won't be just you you endanger."

Crowley grimaced. “Who are you?” he asked, and tried not to flinch at the quiver in his own voice. 

The woman smiled gently. “My name is Regina.” 

Crowley resisted the urge to sigh. That was not a complete answer. “Regina, are you…” he paused, looked askance, then continued, “… human?”

“Of course I’m human. What else would I be?” And yet, while her words indicated surprise at the question, her tone did not.

Crowley shrugged, too tired to puzzle out what this woman knew and didn’t know, then asked, “Why are you helping me, Regina? What do you want from me?”

Regina looked sad. “Mr. Crowley,” she began, and Crowley flinched at his name in her mouth. “I want nothing from you. I’m helping you because Mr. Fell asked me to.”

Crowley felt slightly ashamed, but persevered. “Just because Azi… just because Mr. Fell asked?”

Regina nodded, and said only, “Any friend of Mr. Fell’s is a friend of mine.” 

Crowley sipped his tea, his swallow loud in the room. Regina did not seem bothered by his recalcitrance and only sipped from her own cup as Crowley glanced surreptitiously around the kitchen. It was a light, airy space, without division from the living area, with a homey spice rack on one wall and flowers in the window. He was beginning to relax a bit, seeing no threats, when he looked through at the mantle above the fireplace and froze.

Sitting on the back of the mantle was a small, clear bottle filled with water, with a cross on it. Holy water. 

Crowley whipped back around towards the woman, his muscles coiled to spring to his feet and flee. 

But Regina only looked at him with the deepest of empathy. “Mr. Crowley,” she said softly. “I swear to you, on the life of our mutual friend, you are absolutely safe here.” 

And Crowley believed her.

__________

The next week passed in a blur of long naps and quiet cups of tea. Crowley could feel that he was recovering, but was discomfited by how slow the process was. His burns went gradually from open, weeping blisters to raw, pink sores, and finally to gnarled scar tissue. His demonic powers were even slower to return, which was not only discouraging but came with practical difficulties—his clothes had been reduced to tatters in his ordeal at Gabriel and Sandalphon’s hands, and he now had no ability to repair them. He also was painfully aware that if Gabriel found him, he had no way to protect either himself or Regina. He had become accustomed to his own invulnerability, and felt an all new sense of pity for the humans who were so easily hurt. 

Regina was decent company in that she made no demands on Crowley. If he wanted to chat, she was willing, but frequently he wished only to sit with his thoughts, and she seemed more than happy to sit by him with a book. Crowley found her presence surprisingly restful and thought he could see why she and Aziraphale might understand one another. 

Regina never proffered any information on how she and Aziraphale had become acquainted, and Crowley never pressed. He felt some sense of indebtedness from Regina towards Aziraphale, which didn’t surprise him; he felt certain that there were people all over the world who owed his angel a good turn. What was surprising was Regina’s apparent cognizance of her debt. Most of the time, angels helped because that was what they did, and humans were unaware of the aid. And they certainly didn’t become grateful members of an angel’s circle of acquaintances. Regina, with her subtle but certain perception of Aziraphale and Crowley’s inhumanity, might have been a completely unique occurrence. 

Finally, eight days after Crowley had woken up and just as he was starting to feel restless, Regina received a letter that, so far as Crowley could see, made no sense whatsoever. Regina laughed at his incomprehension. “It’s a code,” she explained, chuckling at his face over her shoulder. “Mr. Fell and I have been using this cypher for some time.” She sat and decoded the letter methodically. Finally, she looked up and said cautiously, “He says it is safe for you to go and that you don’t need to fear any reprisals ‘from above.’” Regina pressed her lips together with the air of one who was restraining herself from comment. “He does say to keep your head down for a bit, as difficult as that might be for you.” She allowed herself a small smile. “His words, not mine.”

Crowley stood up quickly, reaching for his jacket that he had laboriously miracled to rights once his ability to do so had returned. “Does he say if he is alright? Nevermind, I’ll go see him myself…”

“Mr. Crowley, wait,” Regina said as she reached out a hand and grabbed his forearm to still him. “He says not to come. Says he’s being watched, and that he will reach out to you when he can.” 

Crowley froze. Being watched. Gabriel and Sandalphon had not bought whatever story Aziraphale had provided. _Being watched._ What did that mean? Was he in danger? Were they waiting for a moment to attack? _The miracle to make me sleep... how did Aziraphale explain that? Is that what roused suspicion?_

Crowley found himself moving again, and Regina tightened her grip on his arm. 

“Mr. Crowley, please. Think for a moment.”

“I won’t approach him,” Crowley said brusquely. “I won’t expose him. But I have to see him. I have to make sure he is ok.” 

Regina pursed her lips but gave no further argument, and Crowley paused awkwardly at the door. What does one say to the human being who had given him refuge and asked for nothing in return?

“Regina, I know you said you did this because Mr. Fell asked you, and for no other reason, but please know that if you ever need anything, you can come to me.”

She smiled. “You are welcome here anytime, Mr. Crowley.”

__________

Crowley stood in a dark alley and watched his angel through the window of the bookshop, then breathed a sigh of relief. Aziraphale didn’t appear hurt. He wasn’t moving slowly or haltingly. He had a contemplative smile on his face as he sorted books. He looked like himself. He looked wonderful.

For a moment, Crowley forgot himself and took a step forward to leave the dark alley, cross the street, and burst into the shop. _Hello angel! Got any good bottles in back?_

A lucky glance up the street stopped him in his tracks. Sandalphon stood in a doorway a block up. Just standing there, quietly, eyes trained on the bookshop. 

Crowley stepped back quickly and observed Aziraphale again. On closer inspection, something about Aziraphale looked—rehearsed. He wasn’t humming to himself or muttering low commentary on whatever book he was handling, as was his wont. And there were faint lines of tension in his face that Crowley didn’t like. 

Crowley glanced at Sandalphon, then back at his angel in the bookshop.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and faded back into the shadows. 

__________

Crowley checked in on Aziraphale at least once a week for the next several months, but always from a distance. He knew it was a bit of a risk to continue to appear at the bookshop, but found he couldn’t sleep or work or do anything but fret about Aziraphale if he didn’t lay eyes on him every so often. He could never find a way to get close to his angel without tipping off one of the constantly present angelic spies. It wasn’t always Sandalphon, but there was always some angel watching Aziraphale’s comings and goings. Once, Crowley caught sight of Gabriel himself, his purple eyes shrewd and cold as they tracked Aziraphale along the sidewalk. Crowley had to clench his fists to hide their shaking and force himself to turn away from the archangel.

He heard through the grapevine of whispers and rumors that his stunt with the teenage drivers had derailed one of Gabriel’s pet projects. Gabriel had been grooming a teenage boy to enter seminary—coming to him in half-remembered dreams and influencing him carefully towards religious study. Apparently, the boy could have become an extraordinarily Godly man, and might even have created a new sect of Christianity dedicated to Gabriel himself. Instead, the boy met a girl that night when they both snuck out of their parents’ homes and fell in love, and all plans of seminary flew out the window. Gabriel had apparently been apoplectic, but had been much chastised after his attempt on Crowley’s life. One demon with a reliable contact in Heaven reported that some minor angel, who allegedly spent the night of Crowley's attack tending to a possessed child in a residential neighborhood, had inquired, with some concern as to Gabriel's wellbeing, why Gabriel was so "distressed" by Crowley’s bit of mischief. His ostensibly well-intentioned questioning in front of his fellow angels had eventually goaded Gabriel into revealing his vendetta against Crowley in a fit of pique. The Heavenly Host had been indignant and voted to approve a resolution censuring Gabriel for behavior unbefitting an archangel and ordering him in no uncertain terms to never again indulge in petty revenge.

Crowley remembered the letter Regina had read him, stating that Crowley need fear no further attacks.

_My clever angel,_ Crowley thought as he watched Gabriel glare at the bookshop. _You’ve made a dangerous enemy._

Aziraphale never approached his observers, or even so much as glanced at them, but he certainly wasn’t conducting his affairs as he normally would. The bookshop, for the first time ever, observed normal hours of operation. Aziraphale never went to the Ritz, or any of his favorite cafes. He didn’t take walks through any of London’s parks, or wander around museums, or stop in the library just to smell the books. As time wore on, Crowley began to note changes in his angel. At first, it was just the slightest of dark shadows beneath his eyes. Then, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale’s beloved waistcoat was fitting him rather loosely. At the six-month mark, Aziraphale had become markedly thin, and Crowley was having fantasies of tying him down and stuffing him full of Victoria sponge. Two months later, Aziraphale’s face had lost any bloom, and he looked pale and drawn. 

Crowley felt rather pale and drawn himself. The waiting was interminable—would Gabriel ever give up and move on from the whole affair? How long would that take? At some point, fed up with the purgatory in which he found himself, Crowley threw himself under his covers and set his alarm to ring six weeks later. He woke up from a dream of Gabriel’s sword and Aziraphale’s wings, checked the clock, and found he had managed only two hours. He groaned and stood to go by the bookshop one more time.

Finally, thirteen months, five days, and twelve hours after Aziraphale had pulled him from his own grave, Crowley sat in St. James’s Park, sprinkling breadcrumbs in the pond before him for the ducks, thinking to himself that if Aziraphale couldn’t do it, someone had to (a conclusion that was more emotional than logical), when someone sat down next to him without so much as an “excuse me.” Crowley looked up to give the interloper a glare through his sunglasses and stopped short. 

Aziraphale smiled over at him.

Crowley froze. “Angel,” he said, and then his voice faltered and died. 

“Hello Crowley.” Aziraphale reached over and took a handful of breadcrumbs from the bag in Crowley’s lap. He began to distribute them among the ducks, who seemed far more willing to come to Aziraphale’s hand than Crowley’s. “How are you, my dear boy?”

“Angel… I don’t…” Crowley stopped again. “Is this safe, angel?” 

“Oh yes, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled. “Gabriel and his spy ring finally got bored of me about two weeks ago. I waited a bit to be certain.” He looked at Crowley again more closely. “What have you been getting up to without me, my dear? I do hope you haven’t been causing too much trouble.”

Crowley didn’t bother to point out that trouble was sort of his job. He was too busy trying to figure out how to begin to say all the things he should be saying to his angel. Things like, _You saved my life,_ and, _You went and defied the will of an archangel for me,_ and, _What is the Ryland manuscript, and why were Gabriel and Sandalphon so concerned about it burning?_

Or maybe, _When you told me to dream of what I love most, I dreamed of you._

None of these things came out. Instead, he found himself placing a hand on Aziraphale’s arm, just above his wrist. 

“You look tired, angel.” And he did. He looked so tired and wan and worn down. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I am tired, Crowley.” Crowley was aware suddenly that Aziraphale was leaning against him, ever so slightly. Crowley squeezed his arm, just a bit. 

“I missed you,” Crowley said, very softly, half hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t hear him. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “You can’t imagine.”

Later, after Crowley had insisted on taking Aziraphale to the Ritz and forced him to finish every bite of his lunch (he was truly alarmingly skinny, and it didn’t look right on him) and had then brought them both back to the bookshop for a glass of brandy, and after Crowley had removed Aziraphale’s glass carefully from his loosening fingers as he drifted off, sprawled on the couch, Crowley pulled a quilt up to Aziraphale’s chin, straightened his legs, and stared reverently down at the quiescent face. Aziraphale almost never slept, and Crowley had to admit he enjoyed the sight. He wondered absently how long he could sit and watch before it became creepy. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley started, but his angel was still fast asleep. “Where are you, Crowley?” 

Crowley put his hand in Aziraphale’s, and whispered, “I’m right here. I’m staying. Don’t fret.”

__________

Decades after, in the days leading up to Armageddon, Aziraphale would tell Crowley, “I don’t even like you!” and Crowley would remember Aziraphale leaning into him on a bench in St. James’s and murmuring his name in his sleep, and Crowley would simply scoff, “You do!” And that faith would go unshaken, no matter what Aziraphale said about the two of them no longer being on their own side. So despite it all, Crowley would show up the next day in his Bentley to beg his angel to run away with him, and would weep in the burned remains of the bookshop, thinking he’d lost his angel forever. 

And when all was said and done, after Crowley had gone to Heaven and Aziraphale to Hell, after they’d toasted with the best champagne the Ritz had to offer and retired to the miraculously reincarnated bookshop for the evening, Crowley would press his lips to Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale would lean his head against Crowley’s shoulder, and they both, independently, would wonder if a small cottage on the South Downs where the two of them could be together, with a library of books to categorize and a garden of plants to berate, was part of the Ineffable Plan.

And both independently decide that they didn’t give a fuck if it wasn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> The Ryland manuscript is one of the oldest extant copies of any section of the New Testament. I have no idea where it is kept or if it is ever put on display. 
> 
> Comments are never expected but always appreciated. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
